Elysium
by ohmygodwritersblock
Summary: Sherlock gets erased by the crack, leaving John the only one to remember him. Besides the Doctor. What ensues leaves them fighting their own minds in a dreamworld that might be reality. No one really reads crossovers, but I just couldn't not write this.
1. Chapter 1

**If you haven't seen the wholock youtube video 'Elysium' then you have missed some awesome stuff and you need to go and rectify it right now. Whoever made that has some talent. Bucket loads of talent. I would like to say that I mean no disrespect, borrowing this idea, I just loved it so much. Please go check the video out.**

**Don't own Sherlock.**

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Sherlock is hunched down next to the mauled form of the body, which looks as if it was torn apart by the claws of an animal. The skin drips red at the tears in the flesh and hangs off a skeleton that used to support a middle aged man. Caucasian male, dark hair, green irises. The eyes, perhaps the only part of the form that are still intact, stare wide and terrified. Not a pleasant death.

John can tell, even without getting up close, that the wounds were inflicted while the man was writhing and twisting and screaming. Blood has left splatters across the carpeted floor like some sort of morbid landscape, flicked as if from a brush.

John, with all his years as a doctor, can remove himself from the scene slightly, pulling into himself. He glances around the room; high, white ceilings, and warm, comfortable furniture in rather bland colors. There is a crack that stretches across one long portion of the wall. Nothing too thrilling. So why this house? Why this man?

And then he hears a soft growl. The fact that is sounds feral and distinctly animalistic does not completely rule out the chance that it might have come from Sherlock, but when John glances over at him, he has his magnifying glass out and is thoroughly absorbed in his work.

There is no one else in the room. Sherlock had kicked everyone out with the looming threat of a tantrum, and told John to stay behind. Apparently he is in need of John's medical expertise. This involves John watching Sherlock dance around the crime scene while occasionally throwing questions at him, and only half listening to his answers being confirmed.

John has almost convinced himself that he had been hearing things, when another growl floats across the air. Float is an odd word to describe a growl, but it's the word that fits inside John's head. It's as if it had come from a radio broadcast, or through a window. John scans the room for any kind of electrical device. Nothing but the blank television in the corner, which had been off the entire time. The remote control rests untouched beside it.

"Sherlock, did you hear that?" John shifts slightly.

Sherlock glances up momentarily, annoyance written in the twist of his brows, "No. Why, what was it?"

"It sounded almost like- no, it was a growl. Actually growls- plural. I heard it twice." John feels slightly ridiculous, because really, he's hearing growls in a virtually empty room, but the man had clearly been killed by some form of animal, there might be a correlation. Sherlock looks intrigued, as ridiculous as it is. He extends his limbs and adjusts his coat as he stands up, spinning to view the entire room. He strides up to John, completely ignoring the boundaries of personal space. It hits him in that moment that this friendship, this oddness, he is used to it.

And so he remains unaffected by Sherlock's slicing gaze at such close proximity.

Sherlock's attention is completely focused on him and his lips are just parting to speak, when a harsh light begins to pulse from the crack in the wall. He whirls around, the heavy fabric of his coat slapping against John's legs. Sherlock freezes for less than a moment before he is striding long and swift into the brightness.

John remains behind, even when Sherlock proclaims, "John, this is fascinating," and is completely absorbed by the glow.

"Sherlock." He cranes his neck slightly in an effort to view his erratic companion. When there is no answer, John takes a few steps forward, wary of this almost supernatural occurrence. "Sherlock, come on. Answer me." Nothing. "Sherlock."

And then the tendrils of blue seep back into the crack, and Sherlock is on the floor, moaning, confused. And a panic claws through John's organs and tightens one burning hand around his heart. "Sherlock!" John rushes forward, catching Sherlock's slack face between his palms. "Sherlock I need you to look at me. Look at me Sherlock. Tell me what happened, what's wrong?" John just manages to keep his voice smooth and calm, scanning the length of Sherlock, searching for any kind of injury to cause this.

Sherlock's hand attempts to grasp onto some part of John, resting on his leg. But even when he squeezes, flexing the muscles in his hand, all John can feel is a faint pressure. "John." He gasps, clinging to the only piece of John that he can reach. "John, my mind, its- ah," Sherlock winces across the entirety of his body, and the only thing that John seems to be able to do is cling tighter, running his thumbs harsh across Sherlock's cheek bones, his ears, his eyebrows. Searching for something, anything.

"Sherlock, Sherlock. I don't know what's going on, tell me what to do, tell me how I can help you." This is different from the panic and the death of the battlefield. This is confusion and no viewable solution. This is uselessness and the impending death of a best friend. "Sherlock, tell me how to help you. Please."

John can feel an insistent tugging at the edges of his consciousness, pulling, yanking. But John can't think about it now, doesn't have time to puzzle over it- pushes it to the back, away.

Sherlock's heavy eyes fix on John's and there is panic in them, below the sightless glaze. "John." Its raw and rough and dark. And John can only think of one thing to do.

"I'm calling Mycroft." And as he fumbles in his pocket for the phone, its a testament to Sherlock's condition that he doesn't complain.

The rings end with every harsh thump of Johns heart, and he keeps his eyes locked with stormy, swirling grey. "Sherlock, Sherlock look at me. Keep looking at me. Sherlock." John keeps one hand cupping Sherlock's jaw, thumb sweeping harsh strokes across as much skin as he can reach. "Stay with me, I'm calling Mycroft. If you die on me now, I will never bloody forgive you."

The light from the crack is a faint, steady glow now. Smooth and bright. Sherlock makes a choking sound that faintly resembles John's name and in answer, John runs the pad of his thumb over Sherlock's lips. "Shhh. Sherlock, don't talk. Stop. Just keep your eyes on me. Eyes on me Sherlock. Oh thank God." John nearly drops the phone in his relief. "Mycroft, its your brother. He's gone and almost killed himself. Some blue light came out of the wall and it just fucking- no Sherlock, don't close your eyes. Don't you dare close your eyes."

"John, I need you to remain calm. Tell me exactly what has happened."

Sherlock's eyelids have drooped even further, and he makes one last effort to catch hold of John, grasping desperately at his sweater with heavy joints. He manages to pinch the fabric lightly, and then his hand smacks to the ground. There is a flash and he is gone. Sherlock just disappears. John stares, jaw slack, at the emptiness in front of him, deaf to the smooth tone of Mycroft's placid tones (seeping a light suggestion of tension) in his left ear. When he finally gets his voice back, it crawls out of his throat, to a now silent Mycroft at the other end. "He's gone. He just-" John chokes slightly and he struggles to comprehend, dragging his hand through the space, grasping for the heavy press of a body that is no longer there. "He just disappeared."

And then Mycroft's voice appears, sharp and cold and interrogating.

"Who is this? How did you get this number?"

John doesn't even register the questions, all he can hear are his own words pounding with the blood in his ears, gone gone gone gonegonegonegone gone gone gone. And his thumb (still heavy with the suggestion of warm lips, stubble-rough skin) slips against the red button to end the call. His limbs are heavy, but his arms can only accept the impossible, and the emptiness of the room is crawling up his back. And John has never run away from anything in his life before, but he is running now, pushing through the team outside the door, shoving aside the yells of Lestrade and he is running, running, running. Because Sherlock is _gone, gone, gone_.

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**Well wasn't that just lovely. **

**Don't worry, the Doctor will be along to attempt to fix things soon. Yup. So yes.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I feel terrible, I am so, so sorry. The first week of school has been pretty hectic and everyone is always talking in the dorms. So, I don't have anything for ****_Knowing Sherlock Holmes _****I mean, I do, but I hate it. So I'm restarting that chapter. This is just a saved chapter for ****_Elysium _****that I had hanging around, I was going to continue it a little longer before I posted it but then I didn't have internet and everything is saved on google docs and it just never happened.**

**BUT I HAVE INTERNET NOW, SO WORRY NOT.**

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The confusion that is fogging John's brain is sinking him, swirling behind his eyes and it feels like it is probing through his mind. But as he stands on the curb, chest heaving, calves aching, he pushes it down yet again. He will go back to the flat (empty, oh god, the flat will be empty) he will make himself a cup of tea and he will ring Mycroft again.

And even though he can feel tremors shifting, shaking through his bad leg, rolling through his stomach, he nods decisively. Takes a long breath.

He then steps out on the curb and his legs nearly collapse from under him all over again as he repeatedly fails to hail a taxi. Because Sherlock can just sweep out and wave and one draws up.

The confusion is back, pulling at the edges and this time it is painful (he doesn't understand) and he clutches one hand to his temple against the pounding throb that distorts the murmur of London's constant noise. But then the taxi pulls up and he stumbles in and manages to form his lips to the words, "221 Baker Street." and the taxi is pulling away, and the light of cool-grey city slurs past, blurring (and there is no one beside him) and John nearly moans out loud with the smashing, pounding pain. But Sherlock just died, just disappeared in front of him, and he'll call Mycroft as soon as he sits down, as soon as he shuts his (their, his) door and his leg stops jerking and trembling and maybe then he can think (he doesn't understand).

He just needs to think.

John thrusts a few bills at the driver, not pausing to count because he doesn't have time to count (except he has nowhere to be, all the time in the world, because Sherlock is gone).

He doesn't care if that is the cabbie yelling after him or the screech inside his own mind. John tells himself that he is overreacting (to the death of his friend? who could overreact to that?) because he must have been seeing things, has to have been (when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth) because… because. People, even the incredibly Sherlock Holmes don't just die and then disappear into a flash of blue light (when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth). And he has trouble getting the key into the lock, because the tremors in his leg are wracking his whole body, every vibration echoing in his skull, smashing from the inside. Burning and tearing and decimating and when John reaches the landing, after trekking upstairs, one hand pressed against the throbbing of his skull, he collapses against the wall and cries out from the ravaging pain.

Black blurs at the edges of his swirling vision (and he doesn't understand) but he leans hard against the wall and pushes to his feet, and he is standing facing the door to his (their, his) flat, key raised, level with the lock and his joints are frozen, moulds for metal that has cooled to ice and hardened inside, because even though there is bile coating the inside of his throat and his mind is burning up from the inside, tearing itself apart, he might be wrong. He might open the door and in amid the chaos and the rumpled couch cushions, Sherlock might be stretched out, one long arm hanging pale off the armrest. And he will ask for tea- demand tea and John will grumble lightly and go to put the kettle on.

John takes one long breath, and on the exhale, compartmentalizes the pain. Breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out. Box in the pain, shove it to the back of the mind, and focus.

John repeats Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock with every dulling thump against his skull, until it becomes a mantra. He fits the key in the lock, and with a smooth twist of his wrist opens the door.

The furniture is all exactly the same. That is the only similarity between before the case and afterwards. It isn't exactly tidy, per se, books are piled on the table, and there is a mug of tea beside them, but the books are in bright colors with names typed across the cover in looping, flowery script. And John has never seen that mug before. He stands completely still, breath halted in his throat, and he can do nothing but stare at the scene before him. With his sliver of view to the kitchen, John can see that there are no half finished experiments strewn across the surfaces, and across the room, on the fireplace, rests pictures of people, smiling and frozen in place with names that John cannot give them because he has never met any of them before.

John stands in this room, so foreign and so familiar (and it is empty, so empty, but not for the right reasons and somehow that makes it even worse) and suddenly he can't take it anymore. The bile that has slicked his throat, and seared his stomach since Sherlock strode into the blue (only half an hour ago, was it really just half an hour ago? it feels like forever) rises, and he isn't thinking clearly enough to make it to the bathroom, instead he yanks open the window and leans out far over the street and with the heave of his stomach, it burns his mouth, slick and acidic.

And then it is all he can do to just dangle out the window, sucking in air that scalds and freezes his lungs, and watch as people go about their lives. The pounding in his head has lessened now, and he gently relaxes his hold against the sill, the steady thump of Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock still present in his mind. For one heart stopping moment John nearly forgets what the word means (Sherlock, who is Sherlock?) but then he latches on and pulls, keeping it solid. (Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, my best friend). He is about to retreat into the flat again, almost ready to face the odd, terrifying notness of their apartment (and when will he ever be ready, he doesn't understand), when he sees a familiar black car pull up on the curb and he nearly trips over his own feet in his race down the stairs.

He yanks open the door and collapses on the smooth leather of the expensive upholstered seats.

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**John is doing quite well fighting the blue light. Soldier on, darling. **

**So yes, more is on the way. I'm also restarting the next chapter for ****_Knowing Sherlock Holmes,_**** though I'm liking this more.**

**COOKIES FOR ALL, AS AN APOLOGY!**


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